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stopped asking questions. I knew Shannon—her suspicions, how she called Sarah “the witch doctor.” She’d tried to get the doctor from the supply ship to do a Caesarean rather than rely on Sarah’s help. “Too dangerous,” he’d said. “Inadequate facilities.” The hospital in town operated with no power, all those bulky machines heaped up in a kind of scrapyard that overtook the parking lot.
    Marvin came out of his shed. Through the window we watched as he clicked the padlock closed. I put the pot in the sink and we went outside, wandering over to the garden where the last of the lettuce had gone to seed. I picked at bits of tomato skin stuck to my fingers. Thomson’s blood-stained handkerchiefs flapped on the line like prayer flags.
    â€œI’m going into town,” Mr. Bobiwash said as Marvin approached.
    â€œNo wagon?”
    He shook his head. “Walking. We’ll see more.”
    Town was five miles away. A community of about two hundred. A church we never went to, sticking instead to the market, the occasional dance. For years we’d hidden on its edges, but as things unravelled we grew braver, not so afraid of being caught.
    â€œI’m going to meet the boat. Find the doctor.”
    â€œIt’s here?” I asked, eager.
    â€œEvery day,” said Mr. Bobiwash. “I go every day.”
    â€œIt’s been late before,” said Marvin. Mr. Bobiwash picked up the gun, balanced the stock on his shoulder. Marvin was right, but those times we had known where it was, could follow its progress. The only shortwave radio on the island had melted in a fire during a cold snap last January.
    Samuel walked up one side of the garden, dragging his foot in the dirt, making a line. The chickens crowded behind him, pecking at the exposed bugs.
    Mr. Bobiwash turned to me. “Eric picked a load of bulrushes yesterday,” he said, referring to his middle son. “There’s lots.”
    I knew this was Mr. Bobiwash’s way of asking me to stop by his house, to check on Shannon. He closed his free hand around the fencepost and turned to Marvin. “I’m stopping at the Sharmas’ place.” His hand pulled on the wooden stock of the gun so the barrel gazed up at the sky. “Something’s been eating out of their garden.”
    A crow called, landing on the peaked tin roof of Marvin’s shed. “It’s just deer,” I said, but Mr. Bobiwash ignored me.
    â€œCarrots pulled out. Eggs gone. The Sharmas shot a mess of ducks and offered me one.”
    Marvin was already nodding as he spoke. “To look for whatever it is.”
    â€œIt’s a deer,” I repeated, as if Mr. Bobiwash would believe me. I pushed Marvin’s arm, trying to get him to agree with me, to tell Mr. Bobiwash the same thing.
    â€œThey’ve set traps.”
    â€œTraps?” said Marvin.
    â€œBox traps.”
    None of us spoke. The wind moved around us. A blue jay scolded from its perch on a jack pine.
    â€œThe Sharmas are old people,” said Mr. Bobiwash. “They don’t have a lot. Their son probably needs most of their food. He works hard.”
    â€œYou can’t kill it,” I blurted.
    Mr. Bobiwash settled his brown eyes on mine but didn’t say anything.
    â€œAll right,” Marvin said. “I’ll go.”
    â€œI’ll come with you,” I told them.
    Marvin turned to me. “You have to stay with Thomson.”
    â€œHe’s sleeping.”
    â€œSandy . . .”
    I walked away, opened the plastic ice cream pail of corn and crushed clam shells and saw that it was almost empty. The crow cawed into the heavy air. It was humid, rain hanging in the sky. Another bird answered. Waking you from your daytime sleep in the dark rock hollows, telling you to watch out.
    In our bedroom, I sat on the mattress while Marvin changed from shorts to a pair of corduroy pants. Stop him from hunting